The Poignant Years. Horace N. Robinson

      The Poignant Years

      Times of Fun and Feeling

      Copyright © 2016 Horace (Skip) Robinson. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn 13: 978-1-4982-8946-7

      hardcover isbn 13: 978-1-4982-8948-1

      ebook isbn 13: 978-1-4982-8947-4

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      Dedication

      To my wife, Wilma, who has listened to these stories for many years and always with delight—or feigned delight

      To the people of small town America who suffered through the poignant years of WWII and who, unwittingly, served as admirable subjects for these literary sketches of fun and feeling

      To my administrators in higher education who championed the writing of such a volume

      To my colleagues at Southeastern Oklahoma State University who brought this volume to its final form; Mrs. Betty Clay, Mr. John S. Williams, Mr. Michael Stout, Mrs. Joan Ackerson, Mr. Harold Harmon, Dr. C. Henry Gold, Mrs. Jackye Gold, Mr. Richard Hackett, and Dr. R. Stewart Mayers

      Contents

      To the Reader | ix

      Section 1: Through the Eyes of a Child

      Why?—1943 | 3

      Granddaddy Lamb | 6

      The Infidel | 11

      The Fall of Man | 14

      Puberty | 18

      Puberty and Poetics | 21

      Gold Star Mother | 23

      The Solitary Kiss | 26

      Section 2: Through the Eyes of a Young Man

      Fishin’ Buddy | 31

      Sunrise Ode | 36

      The Sergeant’s Boy | 39

      The Jelly Lady | 46

      Section 3: Through the Eyes of a Mature Man

      The Cap | 49

      Violet | 53

      Aloha | 58

      To the Reader

      There is a slice of life containing the WWII years that is chock-full of feeling. This poignant period finds unique expression in the neighborhoods in America that lie just across the railroad tracks. Such was my neighborhood.

      War had cruelly ripped the young away but the neighborhood clamped down like a bulldog and held on tenaciously, awaiting their return. The neighborhood was now peopled by older laborers of various skills and by retired farmers who had worn out the land and themselves before moving to town. They were bound together emotionally and spiritually, and even geographically as they shared the cramped quarters of their existence. Green, neatly trimmed lawns spoke of life and hope, and small clapboard houses freshly covered with white paint spoke of purity. Here the neighbors shared life—the pleasure and pain of it. There were peaches to be peeled and poultices to be applied and polio to be avoided. Static-filled radios crackled out the greeting, “Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea,” followed by a frail president who prayed, “Let our hearts be stout, to wait out the long travail of war, to bear sorrows that may come, to impart our courage to our sons and daughters—wheresoever they may be.” *

      These writings are the honest voices of those hardy souls who could only “stand and wait.” Their commentary, rich in experience if not in education, exudes wisdom about war, life, fun, and purpose. I was nurtured by them as a child, mentored by them as an adolescent, and encouraged by them as an adult. I pray for fidelity, both to reality and to poetic imagination, as I share these literary sketches of fun and feeling with you, the open-hearted and perceptive reader.

      Horace (Skip) Robinson

      —January, 2016

      *President Franklin Roosevelt’s D-Day Prayer, Fireside Chat #29

      Section 1

      Insights into “Why?—1943”

      Convoys of soldiers roared down the narrow highway in front of the elementary school. Tanks followed on massive trailers and well-secured bombs on flatbeds.

      The soldiers were headed to battlefields unknown and the munitions to the supply line on the sea coast of south Texas.

      An adult could understand the life and death struggle of the war and the one hundred flag-draped caskets that had already come home to our small Oklahoma county.

      But to a second grader, the trappings of war and the deep emotions that tinctured daily life added up to one big question, “Why?”

      Through the Eyes of a Child

      Why?—1943

      “Second Grade, listen to me—stay on the curb—do not step into the street, understand? The convoy is coming.”

      “Teacher, can I wave our little flag? Jasper did it last week and it’s my turn.”

      “My name is Mrs. Miller and yes you may wave the little flag. I wish we all had one to wave.”

      “Teacher—Mizz Miller,—I got some questions.”

      “Not now Skippy, I can’t hear you well; we’ll talk about it after the convoy.”

      “OK, Mizz Miller.”—

      “Teacher—why are the soldiers always nervous and smokin’—but they always smile and wave?”

      “They’ve come many, many miles, Skippy.”

      “Teacher, why was the Kool-Aid bitter at Mary’s birthday party? It was red but it was bitter. Her mom said, ‘Wait till next year when the war’s over—It’ll be sweet I guarantee you.’”

      “Sugar is rationed.”

      “What’s rationed?”

      “You can’t have everything you want.”

      “Mizz Miller, why do we have bomb drills and hide under our desk with our notebook on our heads? Is Hitler going to drop a bomb on us? That scares me.”

      “He doesn’t even have a bomb, Skippy.”

      “You sure, teacher,—that scares me.”

      “Mizz Miller, why do people get real quiet when they talk about Mizz Vest?”

      “Mrs. Vest is a Gold Star Mother.”

      “What’s a Gold Star Mother?”

      “It is a mother who has lost a son or daughter in the war.”

      “Teacher, what does loose lips sink ships mean?”

      “It means don’t tell secrets, Skippy.”

      “Mizz Miller—why does that old man who prays at church always start cryin’ when he gets to the end and prays about the soldiers?”

      “All